


Behind the Scenes: Real Murder Husband Lives

by jimisfabby



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, it's like the treasure trove of mormor(mor) emotions, not really - Freeform, oh sorry also for the second chapter, see look at all that variety one minute it's domestic the next it's triggers, trigger warning: self harm, yet also
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimisfabby/pseuds/jimisfabby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just little drabbles and ficlets I write if I have the inspiration to do so, focusing on our favourite pair of murder husbands.<br/>I couldn't think of a better title. I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to everyone I know and their families.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Earring

"You look like a chav."  
"Shut up, it's for a job."  
"An earring, Jim? _Seriously_ , an _earring_?"  
"I will be much more convincing for the job that is coming up. It is paramount that I fit the part and I do my job."  
"So your job is to look like you wear hoodies and stab people. Wait, you already do that..."  
"Look, just because I didn't go to fucking Eton doesn't mean you ca--"  
"I got expelled."  
"You still went there. And you still got into Oxford."  
"You went to Cambridge."  
"Yeah, well, the point I'm making is I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth."  
"Neither was I, mine was more a delicate shade of gold."  
"Oh, feck off."  
"..."  
"..."  
"Brap."


	2. Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something bad happened. Rich must play a spectator to his own suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I know I said this was going to be murder husbands but I've kinda branched out on this one also it is not fluff hi ty

He was too still.

If anyone who had not seen war looked at him now, they would find it easier, perhaps, to believe he was sleeping. But the battle changes you. Years after, you will still awake in the dead of night, your skin plastered with frightened sweat, your pulse frantic, your lover holding you tightly, trying to drag you away from visions of sand and sun as your lungs struggle to keep you alive. You will always be a fitful sleeper; a gift of nights of screams and shells that will haunt you until you die.

Richard had never seen war, but he had seen him. He had seen the way his eyes flickered with life for the briefest of moments before settling back into derelict nostalgia, watched how he, once, during another inescapable night time terror, had calmed into more peaceful sleep than he’d had since he would remember with only the warmth of Richard’s hand curling up in his, how his gentle calloused fingertips had brushed over Richard’s faded scars, how soft his lips and the emotion they carried.

It was all wrong.

The blunt _wrongness_ of it all made Richard want to scream and claw and tear and sob and hide and sleep and hurt, because if he could control the pain, maybe everything would be back to how it was. He was a buzzing mass of feelings he couldn’t control and couldn’t get rid of and it all _hurt_. And maybe that was why all he could do was stand and see the stillness of the man on the bed. See the stillness, and be consumed by the wrongness.

Jim was wrong too. His eyes were never dead around Richard like they were when he wanted to scare people. He was never quiet like this when he was watching him, observing him, adoring him. 

He never cried.

If Richard was passion and emotion and blinding, burning hurt, then Jim was the distant sun, far and dead and unresponsive. 

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he were afraid of scalding him, Richard reached down, motionless fingers curling around trembling ones. They would have to build each other back up, like they always had done, two brothers with really only one soul.

Sebastian was too still now. Sebastian wouldn’t squeeze back.


	3. The Hobo Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim has an issue with Sebastian's choice in clothing. What's new here?  
> (Fluffy drabble type thing I wrote ages ago and am posting now.  
> ~*~*~*~)

One time around the flat, Jim spotted Sebastian wearing an old, battered T-shirt that didn’t properly fit him anymore and had the name of a metal band he’d stopped listening to ages ago printed across his chest in fading red letters across a black background.

Jim had threatened to burn the shirt, as in his words,

“You look like a goth hobo.”

In response, Sebastian had given a two-finger salute and held the righteous head-held-high look of a man who simply did not give a fuck. And he had also made a point of wearing the same t-shirt around Jim whenever possible.

Sighing, tutting and fuming like the over-dramatic teenager he was, Jim had stayed quiet. Although, Sebastian knew without a shadow of a doubt, that the cogs had begun ticking in Jim’s brain, and his battered old t-shirt would soon be for-the-chop.

He’d been right.

There had been threats, knives, scissors and the tiniest, teeniest bit of begging. (Although that had been from Sebastian, after Jim had switched tactics from violence to seduction, but which was more or less the same thing with them.)

Despite every effort made on its life, the shirt lived on, still as tatty and ragged as ever, Sebastian still with that supreme-ruler-of-the-old-t-shirt-wearers-universe look on his face.

But the shirt, it seemed, was not invincible.

One day, Sebastian had come home, gone to his wardrobe to change, and had found the shirt to be gone.

_Jim’s resorted to stealing now? How petty._

Sebastian decided the best tactic would be to ignore it, show Jim he didn’t really care, so chose another more acceptable shirt, and went about his business, as he normally would in the evening after a kill.

Nothing was said about the _‘probably decimated by now’_ tee between the two for about two days.

The silence finally broke when one night, Sebastian was disturbed from reading his book, when the diminutive figure of Jim clambered into bed and nuzzled up to the larger man. Scanning his eyes over the man clinging to him like some reversed-roles teddy bear, Sebastian grinned.

He was wearing the presumed-dead Hobo Shirt. It was much too big for him, and hung from his minute frame, making it look like he was wearing a black deflated cotton balloon.

Sebastian had raised an eyebrow at Jim, a barely disguised look of amusement on his face.

Sticking out his tongue in a childish act of defiance, Jim gave him a grumpy look, resting his head on Sebastian’s chest. “Shut up. It’s comfy.”

Sebastian had been sorely tempted to reply with, ‘you look like a goth hobo,’ but he had resisted, and instead had chuckled, turned the light off, and settled down, wrapping an arm around his lover and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

To date, the Hobo Shirt is still the only t-shirt in Jim’s wardrobe.

Well. The only one that hasn’t been ripped to shreads.


End file.
